Some will say you can’t put a price on a family holiday, but schools and travel companies are certainly trying. The stories of headteachers refusing to grant permission for parents to take their children on affordable term-time holidays (and in one case, even attend a memorial service) have been mounting, but new education secretary Nicky Morgan says she will not be changing the rules. They state that permission will only be granted in exceptional circumstances.

As circumstances go, Curtis Ingrouille-Kidd’s could not be more exceptional. The 13-year-old has cerebral palsy, epileptic fits and is blind, and his proposed holiday may be the last one he ever takes (his family have been told that he could die between the ages of 14 and 19). Yet his parents face fines and prosecution if they take him on a cruise where the swimming pool and the sensory motion of the boat will give him the relaxation he needs, and deserves.

It’s true that we are not owed a right to relaxation, nor a family holiday, but whether it’s a weekend in a caravan in Cornwall or an all expenses paid safari, spending time with those we love is vital for our wellbeing. Not just for disabled people but for everyone.

A childhood holiday invokes particularly potent memories: the crackling of the battered shell of fresh cod, the smell of rotting seaweed, a three-hour long game of Cluedo played in a damp holiday cottage. So many of my conversations with adults about their childhoods involve their holiday memories. In a way, they seem more firmly rooted than other, less distinct events as we grow up, fixed as they are in a specific point in time.

People now work more than ever, so that precious break together, along with the excitement of seeing a part of the world that is fresh and new, becomes embedded in family folklore (even if it’s Robin Hood’s Bay as opposed to the Riviera). My partner, one of nine children, hilariously recalls epic trips across Europe to an apartment in southern Spain – hyped-up kids spilling out of the back of a people carrier to torture one another in French car parks.

My father spent his holidays on the beaches of north Wales, and when his mother died, he and his siblings returned. Six adults in their 40s and 50s built a gigantic sandcastle and watched as the edifice, which contained her ashes, were swept out to sea.

The memories of holidays never dwindle, and it’s deeply unfair that those who lack the income to go away in term time are being deprived of them for fear of a criminal record. My dad worked a lot, and I treasure the mental snapshots I have of our single family holiday, to Donegal, in Ireland, when I was seven. Racing my dad along a riverbank at sunset, and realising with alarm that the speed and power of a grown man was no match for a little girl. My first kiss on the lips, from a smiling kid with a blonde pudding basin haircut, now sadly long gone – the victim of epilepsy that now also affects my little brother. Beaches more beautiful than I’ve ever seen; a highly educational trip to a workhouse.

My internal picture album is both unexceptional and, to me, exceptional. Most people (including, I bet, those headteachers) have their own cache and would not give it back for the world.

It goes without saying that, for disabled children and their families, holidays can have a transformative effect. It’s so difficult to organise a trip abroad for someone with complex needs, which is why my brother had not been away for over a decade. After repeating the phrase “want to go on holiday” for weeks on end, he has just returned from a week in a log cabin in the Lake District, where he went rock climbing and kayaking. He had a lovely time.

I think most people would agree that Somerset county council should intervene and let Curtis and his parents have their holiday. On this rainy island we all need the chance to make memories, to feel the sun on our faces, without fear of being prosecuted.

You may be able to put a price on a fortnight in Tenerife at peak time, but you can’t put a price on a rare chance to be with your dad, or eat your first crab, or feel the rocking of a boat before you die.